Rust
by FanSlewFantasy
Summary: RusAme. Some messed up PWP, emphasis on the messed up. Very, very short. Yaoi, Character death *im a bad preson...*, hate... lots of awful things. It was worth a try, right? Don't like please don't read. Thanks


**Right. So just sit still for a sec and let me explain this horrid little disgrace I have for you right here.**

**A few weeks ago, while fluttering around the internets as I so often do, I discovered a sort of comic strip thing by an anonymous artist, that I kind of fell in love with. I KNOW I REALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE, because it was messed up and dark and frankly grossly disturbing, but for some reason, I just… found it horridly beautiful. I cant find the original though, and the one I got was so small I can hardly see the speech. So here is a short fic adaption.**

**Im sorry for any mental scarring this may cause.**

…

The room was dark.

Dark, and heavy with the smell of vodka and sweat, of man against man, and bare, glistening skin. No windows, the only light a candle on the bedside. The mattress creaked beneath the two twisting and heaving on it, the rusted springs threatening to snap and spear the wadded, stained surface that bore the creases of the bodies crushed there, and the skin grinding across the surface with a rough, gravely crinkle. Clothes, a heavy canvas coat and two pairs of trousers, broke the carpet of dust on the floorboards, a scarf slung lowly from a crack up to the bed, looping around the neck of the man on the bottom and dripping across his collar luxuriously. Champagne hair, darkened in the thick mood of the space, clung to his hot, filmy face, his long lashed eyes, flashing mauve gems, fluttered closed.

Above him, another man worked, naked but for the bomber sliding down his shoulders, rasping his breaths as he found balance with his hands on the flat of his partners chest. A man with blue eyes, half-masten, fogged glasses slipping down a gold traced nose and hair the colour of straw, mussed and tossed around a strangely distorted face. His expression, like that of looking in a cracked mirror, melted and moved in time with the way he hammered his body, riding the dick of the other fiercely, feeling it inside him, powerful and thick and hot, hot, _hot_.

"A-Amerika…" the man on the bottom clawed his hands, dragging them over the soft hips of him, Amerika, leaving searing red lines in their wake. The body of the other was overwhelming, heavy and wild, much too intense for even his strength. He could feel bruises on his chest, from the hands braced there, and his hips and thighs were begging for mercy, wound to inhuman tension, throbbing, and burning. Amerika raised his eyes, letting his hand run down the body he mounted toward the spread of his own. His smile curled poisonously.

_Russia _

"I'm c-cumming…"

"Mm…" America lifted his hand, not easing his fucking. He had located his special, blossoming bud, and the delirious haze of pleasure it was instilling in him each time that cockhead ground over it made him wild, starved, furious and burning with a fire so intense he wondered if Russia could feel it on his skin.

His hand, still despite the quiver in the rest of him, slipped quietly and discreetly into his lapel. Beneath him, the other man jerked, nearing the brink, his broad shoulders flexed back and his scarred neck bared. His scarf slipped off, and fluttered to the ground. Amerika slipped his weapon, clicked it, and took swift aim.

His finger clenched as his hips slammed down and Russia's hammered up, cum rushed into him in a glutinous ribbon and a crack tore the night. The candle flickered lowly in its pool of wax, preparing for its death. The wall behind the bed was a spray of slick, black like ink in the low light of murder and glistening in the seeming, lustful way of a woman's eyes, hungering for sex. It was still hot in the room, and silent. Amerika's hand was wet and the spatters on his knuckles burned. His glasses too, were flecked with dark, guttering droplets of blood.

The candle floundered, drowning slowly and stuttering its last breath. Panting heavily he dropped the gun and brought his hands back, flat on Russia's chest. The motion slid meaty, still erect cock over the place in Amerika's body again, his eyelids shuttered and he groaned in low, reverent pleasure. His twisted smile had barely pulled his lips before, with an inaudible pop, darkness thick and foul claimed the room.

And after a moment of silence, echoing in the solid walls of black, the slow bedsprings resumed their mournful, tormented squeaking to release.

…

**JKSLKSÆAÆØF FAØLF LKSF SF FKÆAJLFL FKF FLKDLK! I am sorry you had to read that.**

**I don't own hetalia. I don't even LIKE RusAme…**

***shame***


End file.
